Love of the Unconditional Sort
by potterology
Summary: "Love, expressing it and accepting, did not come naturally to Emma, but even her years of disappointment and rejection cannot fight against the tidal wave crashing over her as she takes in the look on her mother's face." Mother/daughter feels.
1. Snow

_**Charming family feels!**_

* * *

The first thing she hears is screaming. A few of them, actually; two deep and angry voices howling at one another while feminine shrieks litter the background. Emma bolts upright as she hears her father call her mother's name like a prayer. He sounds desperate and if there was anything she had learned from Henry, it is that Prince Charming only became desperate when a life was on the line. She tumbles from the cot in the room she is sharing with her parents and staggers out onto the main deck, arm thrown up to deflect the harsh sunlight of Neverland. _Christ_. In the darkness of the cabin, it was easy to forget where she was: aboard the fucking_ Jolly Roger_ gearing up to take on Peter Pan, and as absurd as her life has become, it all gets pushed away as she takes in the scene she has stumbled in to.

Mary Margaret - Snow White? Mom? _God, no_. - has the tip of a ferociously sharp looking sword pressed tightly to the curve of Regina's neck, a thin line of blood highlighting the contact, with a look on her face that sends a cold chill down Emma's spine. It's the look of a woman possessed, a woman in mourning, a woman deeply _wronged_. David has his arms splayed outwards, standing with his back to his wife and her prey, yelling at Hook not to get involved and to let him handle it. Gold stands off to one corner, thoroughly enjoying himself, and Emma is at a loss.

Her mother looks ready to murder. She would be lying if she said a tiny part of her wasn't the slight bit rooting for it. Below deck, she had not been able to hear much of what was actually being said, but now she's out in the open and the dust is settling somewhat, it all becomes pretty clear.

"Say it again," her mother says through clenched teeth. The sword moves closer, only just, but it's enough to make Regina flinch.

"I think you heard me well enough the first time." Arrogance is easy for the older woman, Emma thinks, easier than pity or shame, or even guilt. It can mask the harsher feelings below, can twist any kind of conscience into a beast lurking beneath, convincing itself that _yes, good, I am doing the right thing. _But this close to the flame, Emma can see it fading pretty fast - a trickle of doubt, perhaps even fear, has filled in the cracks and Regina can see Snow White under Mary Margaret for the first time in a very long time. Emma steps forward despite herself, angling towards David.

"What the hell is going on?" Her voice is shaky because she is also the tiniest bit afraid. Such rage, such utterly unbridled contempt, should never mark Mary Margaret's features, contorting soft beauty into captivating loathing. She has become all sharp angles and hard lines; jaw clenched, knuckles white, shoulders squared and feet apart. The smell of death and danger is carried on the breeze coming from the rolling sea.

"Twenty-eight years," Mary Margaret spits. "You stole twenty-eight years from me. Her entire life! I never got to hear her first words or see her first steps or hear her laugh for the first time! I held her for less than a minute - a _minute_! I held my baby for a minute and then she was gone. My _baby_!" As she went on, listing injustice after injustice, her voice became more and more hysterical, angry tears streaming unchecked. "You _stole_ my daughter from me and you dare try and tell me what is best for her?"

Emma shifted, uncomfortable, feeling strangely as though she should not be witness to the minor meltdown. It was all suddenly too private. An intimate kind of grief typically reserved for midnight crying jags into a husband's shoulder or a soft pillow was now on public display and it made her feel like a child, hidden behind the bannisters on the stairs, eavesdropping on conversations not meant for consumption. Love of the unconditional sort had never been reserved for her; not even in the better foster homes did she feel as cared for as she had hoped. There were stories and perhaps even a kiss on the forehead or two, but there was no real sentiment behind it, just a sense of duty and mild parental obligation. But standing here, now, watching Mary Margaret positively seething over the fact that Emma had grown up unloved, it struck her that she was _wanted_.

Once upon a time, she had been planned for and hoped for and tried for. She had been prepared for. She had seen the nursery - the massive teddy bears and hand made crib, obviously crafted with absolute love, and above it a mobile of glass unicorns and tiny swords, each handmade with care - but only now did she realise: her parents had loved her before she took even her first breath.

And that thought spurred her into action.

"Mom," the word left her mouth before she had time to think about it and it shocked Mary Margaret just as much. Not enough to drop the sword, but enough to avert part of her attention, still glaring daggers at Regina. "I know you're mad, and you have every right to be, but this isn't the answer."

"She should pay for what she did." Emma's heart almost shatters as Mary Margaret's voice breaks, grief finally overwhelming her anger as she starts to cry in earnest.

"And she will. But not like this." Edging forward, past her father, Emma wraps her hand around her mothers and gently tugs the sword out of her hand, tossing it aside and out of reach. Her mother collapses into the circle of her arms, body wracked with loud, proper sobs, and Emma blocks out the entire world because _her mother is crying_. Someone is talking but she doesn't care who and before she even realises, they are alone together.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulls away, wiping at her own tears and Mary Margaret cups her chin, her resolve returned. Occasionally, Emma misses her roommate and friend, but then there are moments like this and all she can think is _Mommy_.

The brunette steels herself, meeting her daughter's eyes. "Sometimes..." she clears her throat, trying again. "Sometimes, I look at you and I can hardly believe you're really standing in front of me. I keep thinking you're going to disappear or that I'll forget you again. But most of the time, I am so angry at myself." Mary Margaret closes her eyes against whatever onslaught of shame comes over her. Emma frowns, not understanding.

"What do you mean?"

A gentle hand rests along the side of her face, thumb moving over the soft skin of her jaw. "For forgetting you at all. For forgetting my perfect, beautiful baby girl."

"The curse-"

"Is no excuse." And there it is. Love, expressing it and accepting, did not come naturally to Emma, but even her years of disappointment and rejection cannot fight against the tidal wave crashing over her as she takes in the look on her mother's face. True, pure love, the kind only a parent can have for their child. A look that said _I am yours and you are mine, no matter what_. Without thinking, Emma crushes herself against her mother, arms tightly wrapped around her, eyes damp again.

"I love you, too," she murmurs into Snow's shoulder. For the first time in a long time, she feels home.


	2. Charming

On occasion, he can't breathe.

It happens in the quiet moments; most recently just before he falls asleep, his wife tucked into his side while the steady rocking of the ship lulls them into unconsciousness, his daughter lets out a tiny sob so softly that when he wakes the next morning he thinks he imagined it. He has heard her cry before. Once upon a time, the sound of her crying piercing the air filled his heart with a soaring joy that echoed from his bootstraps to the backs of his eyes. But this is not the cry of a newborn; this is the devastated weeping of a mourning mother. This is a short, wet, almost-cough that shakes her hunched shoulders over and over, until she is forced to muffle her despair into a pillow so as not to wake her supposedly sleeping parents.

She has her back to them - privacy is a rare commodity on the Jolly Rodger, so they take what they can get and where - with her knees pressed to her chest. Over the slant of Snow's shoulder, Charming can only see the top half of her back and the accompanying blonde ponytail, but the tell-tale shuddering tells him everything he needs to know.

His heart aches.

His lungs constrict.

And he forgets how to breathe.

Everything in him wants to charge over and pull his little girl - or not so little anymore, he thinks sadly - into his arms and never, ever let her go. He wants to lift the heavy weight from her shoulders and hoist it up above himself; he wants to tear down buildings just to see her happy; he wants so, so badly to swim the lengths of the Neverland ocean, find Henry and bring him home because it would stop the horrid shake of her shoulders. He wants to turn back time and say so, so, _so_ much more than just 'find us'. He wants to tell her that she is his life, his blood, his breath. That the sound of her crying fills him with unending sadness, righteous indignation, pure golden fury, and above all: a love that he could bleed.

Sleep takes him before he can spill his guts in the darkness, and when morning comes he pretends not to notice her red-rimmed eyes. Knowing if he did ask, she would only feel uncomfortable and shrug it off.

Therein lies the disconnect between what he wants to do and what she needs him to do. He _wants_ to pull her behind him and his sword against all danger, to protect her always and tell her he loves her every moment of every day. However, she _needs_ him to keep his distance; at least until she can reconcile David Nolan, swine and all around coward, with Prince Charming, father and sovereign.

How he wishes he could take back those first nine months.

When she first came to Storybrooke, he didn't understand why his eyes lingered longer on her than necessary. David Nolan had mistaken it for attraction. She was a beautiful woman without a doubt, tall and blonde and fierce, all legs and high cheekbones. The way she carried herself, confident with a no-bullshit attitude, alone would be a turn on for any man. But something had always felt different. She did not inspire the same passion as Mary-Margaret. There was an attraction, but of a different kind; when he had thought about her, he felt only an inexplicable, unexplainable innate sense of _pride_.

David Nolan had been embarrassed feeling so much for a complete stranger. For Charming, it is nowhere near close to being enough.

* * *

On board the Jolly Rodger, he finds her standing at the helm, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Trying to spot land in the pitch black is a fruitless effort and yet he cannot bring himself to discourage her. Not now. Not yet.

"Your wife is kind of crazy," she says. Her voice is soft and slips between the waves gently lapping against the hull of the ship. A strange thought passes through his mind - if the curse had never robbed them of one another, would her voice mingling with the easy weight of water still rouse within him the same need to memorise every syllable just in case he never heard it again?

"She's your mother. I can divorce." He resists the urge to close his eyes and inhale when she lets out an ungraceful snort. Snow's laugh had always put him in mind of bonfires in winter, of wry grins over mugs of hot cocoa, of careful caresses and horses hooves; but Emma, he thinks, is like September rain. She is bitter chocolate smuggled late at night, is overly long wheat grass in the late days of summer, is heavy plaid shirts and workman's boots; she is the clatter of car keys against a wood floor; and, woven intricately throughout, is the salty ocean breeze. He doesn't think he could ever possibly get tired of hearing her laugh.

They stand quietly for a time, side by side, with just the ocean and the stars for company. Everyone else is sleeping; David had come to relieve Emma of duty. She looks beyond tired and, once again, he misses a breath.

"We're going to find him, right?" she asks. She isn't looking at him - doesn't have to be - but he can see her wide eyes, her downturned mouth, her fidgeting hands. In all the time he's known her, he can't recall a time when she had looked so _young _before. So worried. So innocent. When he speaks, wrapping a strong arm around his daughter's shoulders, he finds himself remembering his mother.

"Fate, it would seem, is perpetually on this family's side. We will always find each other. I promise." He takes a chance by placing a kiss into her hair. She smiles but it's placating, not really buying it.

"You sound just like him. Henry, I mean. He believed in the curse, in everything, in _me_, even when everyone thought he was crazy. He is always so sure. I can't help but feel that if I had somehow just believed him from the start, none of this would have happened, y'know?" she sighs heavily into his shoulder, her arm snaking around his waist in an almost hug. In happier times, he would have been ecstatic at the contact.

"Sometimes," he begins slowly, taking a deep breath. "Sometimes things have to fall apart before they can get better. Your mother and I put you in the wardrobe because we thought Regina would have rather killed you than risk letting you grow up into a threat. You gave up Henry because you wanted to give him his best chance in life and although it may not always seem like it, you did exactly that. Now, I don't think we were given much of a choice in either decision, but my point is this: we made those decisions based on the belief that we were doing the right thing. And belief is nothing without hope." He loosens his grip and smiles down at her. "So if there is hope for Henry, and as he happens to be a member of _this_ family there most certainly is, it is more than enough to keep me believing."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment and he worries that perhaps he got too personal for her, that maybe he had pushed the fatherly wizened advice bit a touch too far, but his fears are quickly put to rest. She flings her arms around his neck, eyes shut to keep back the tears.

What really gets him, however, is her quiet voice whispering, "Thanks, Dad," into his neck. And just like that, he cannot breathe.


End file.
